


Gilded Steel

by jillyfae



Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: F/M, Ficlet Collection, Prompt Fic, Romance, Sexual Content, Tumblr
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-09
Updated: 2016-04-01
Packaged: 2018-04-13 17:40:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 3,791
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4531095
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jillyfae/pseuds/jillyfae
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What-if's and what could have beens ... these are not all in the same continuity or canon, but are all potential glimpses of a Bethany/Fenris relationship. (Mostly from tumblr prompts. Frequently <a href="http://machakizi.tumblr.com">machakizi's</a> fault. Feel free to <a href="http://faejilly.tumblr.com/ask">ask for more</a>, if you like that sort of thing.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. dystopia

**Author's Note:**

  * For [spadequeen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/spadequeen/gifts).



They sent her to be Harrowed even before they’d found her robes that fit.

There was a light in the eyes of the Templar escorting her, something sharp and gleeful. There was no hiding it beneath the weight of his plate, the low steady rhythm of his voice.

The kind of joy she’d always been so careful to avoid, before. The grey hair didn’t matter. He was just the sort of boy who drowned strays  _so they wouldn’t starve, so they couldn’t cause trouble,_ and knew just how to widen his eyes afterwards, all innocent regret about how he’d had no choice.

Boys like that always had a choice, and they’d already made it.

He’d take all hers away from her, if he had a chance.

So she wouldn’t give him one.

They finally reached the Harrowing Chamber, and his smile tightened, his breath too quick as he knocked.

She side-stepped his hand as the doors swung open, and offered him a nod, a smile,  _no Sunshine here, not anymore,_ and something in him recognized something about her, as he went too still, and let her go.

They were so foolish, these Circle Templars, as trapped and lost as their Mages. And they thought she should fear  _them._

Did he think their teased and baited demon would be able to compare to the things she’d seen? To the look in her mother’s eyes, the break in her father’s voice, the sudden shocking quiet on the day her magic had come in?

_Only Carver had refused to treat her differently._

Did their demon think it could possibly cause any more pain than her father’s training, her siblings’ always hiding from their friends, her mother crying in the night as she packed, again,  _again,_ when she thought her children were asleep.

Could their demon even compare to that Ogre, back outside of Lothering?

_Only Carver._

She’d said farewell to her family, to her friends … she’d even said good-bye to Fenris, to the furrow between his brows, to the anger in his voice, the tension in his shoulders that never made it to his hands, fingers always gentle when he dared to let them touch anything.

Especially her.

_If only …_

She’d given it all up.

Did they think there was anything left to take?


	2. Gold (NSFW)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [prompted by taokan](http://faejilly.tumblr.com/post/58161872692)

She’d been afraid of him, the first time she met him.  An air as dark as blooded steel, a body edged with silver, the sweet-bitter tang of lyrium in the air around him, his glare sharp enough to cut when he glanced her way, eyes green and hard and heated by a rage she couldn’t imagine.

Or perhaps she could imagine, a darkness so painfully similar to the whispers beyond her dreams, and that had been the problem.

She never would have thought he could look soft.  Muscles loose, arms sprawled, legs mostly wrapped in a tangled blanket, hair spread across his pillow.

She never could have believed it would be because of her.

The wind shifted outside, blowing the sound of the sea across her skin, lifting the curtains enough that light spilled across the bed, thick and golden, lingering on his skin.  She was afraid to blink, afraid she’d miss it, the air moving slowly enough it almost seemed that she could watch the light pour itself down his back, his brands warm and rich, sharp edges hidden by a spill of gold.

Her chest ached, and she realized as the curtains settled and the light grew cool again that she’d been holding her breath.  She let it loose, only to feel it catch in her throat as his shoulders moved, a roll of muscle beneath his skin, echoed by the low hum of his voice, a wordless lifting tone, a question, thick and rasping and still half asleep.

She wanted to say good morning.  She wanted to whisper his name, as she had the night before, but the spill of light made the memory of his arms around her in the dark seem almost like a dream, and all she could manage was a sigh, and another shaking breath as her hand reached out, fingers hovering above the curve of his spine.

He rolled to his side, and his back lifted up beneath her hand, until her fingers caught against his skin, and she dropped her thumb to rub along the curve of a rib.  His skin was hot beneath her palm, igniting an answering flush across her chest at the thought of all his skin pressed to hers, his lips searing a path down her neck.

His knuckle glanced against her temple, fingers brushing her hair back from her face, and she closed her eyes and lifted her chin, a hum of pleasure caught in the back of her throat.  She felt one finger trail down the front of her neck, slowing to savor the thrum beneath her skin, even as the pitch lifted to a whine at the tease, and she opened her eyes.

She’d never realized green could be so warm, that a dark line of brows could be a comfort, that he’d have a smile so broad and crooked.  She didn’t know how to say what it meant, to see him, to have him here, still, warmth and ease in the daylight beyond that first shadowed connection the night before.

So instead she shifted closer, feeling the bedding wrinkle beneath her and caring not in the least, as he lifted his head just enough to meet her in a kiss, scalding hot, as if the sunlight had caught him on fire in truth.

"Bethany," he breathed against her cheek, and she could feel the heat of him all down the length of her body, the jut of his cock hidden by the blanket still, but hard against her stomach through the cloth.

She stretched her neck until she could kiss his ear, “yes,” part invitation, part answer, part plea, “please.”

He shifted his weight and rolled her onto her back, his mouth sliding down her neck, even better than she’d imagined, her back arching up to press her breasts against his chest, smooth and hot and firm, the ache in her nipples making her stomach clench.

Their fingers brushed together, both of them tugging at the blanket, pulling it out of the way, one final kick of his feet to free his legs, a shift of her hips, his arm hooked under her thigh to lift her leg, to spread her wide, and then she was clinging to him, head falling back and spine curving to press herself closer as he rubbed his cock up between their bodies, hot and hard against her clit.

He bent his back, his neck, just enough for his mouth to find her breast, a tease of lips and tongue for a breath or two before he sucked her nipple into his mouth.  Her body bucked beneath him as she gasped, and his hands shifted along her sides, warm and strong against her skin.

His hips stuttered as she mouthed his name, rough and barely audible, an uneven jerk pressing his cock harder against her clit, and she writhed beneath him, she didn’t know what to do with her arms, fingers catching on bedding, on skin, her legs rubbing against his, her body pinned beneath his mouth and cock and hands and heat, muscles taut, impossibly tight and aching, caught in an endless aching moment of need; no matter how she moved, how hard she pushed up against him, it wasn’t quite enough.

His mouth moved, the weight of his lips, his head, his body above her breastbone, a shift of the arm bracing her thigh, a roll of his hips just so, and it was better than lightning beneath her skin, hot and shivering, eyes closing and body clenching and the sob of his name sliding past her lips again.

She burned, fire at the feel of his skin against her, inside her, the push of his cock moving deep, each ragged breath from his mouth hot air along her skin, the thrum of a moan or a growl deep in his chest, so soft she couldn’t hear it, but she could feel it on his lips against her breast, her neck, her jaw.  

He pushed away, a shock of air between them, the head of his cock dragging back against something inside her, making her moan, making her beg, soft and incoherent, a whine of breath and clutching fingers even as he tilted his hips and pushed back in again, again, she was lost in flames, nothing solid but the grip of his fingers and the throb of her body around him.

She came again, she’d never stopped, the smell of his skin, lyrium singing somewhere behind her eyes, her heart burned, joy brighter than the sun, the feel of his voice breaking around her name, the shudder of her skin, a syncopated counterpoint to the uneven rhythm of his hips as his thrusts got deeper, harder, and his lips found hers, a wet dragging kiss, a brush of tongues and a shift of mouths, continuing even after their bodies settled, heavy and still, into the bed beneath them.

Even when they rolled apart, some slight need to breathe, to let air ease the heat between them, she kept her hand in his, fingers touching, sliding, holding them together.


	3. one dance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> an anonymous request from the obscure word prompt meme.  
>  _Mamihlapinatapei_ : The look between two people in which each loves the other but is too afraid to make the first move.

He thought her pretty.  And then he thought himself a fool, for daring to think so softly of a  _mage._

And then Hawke left, and he watched her walk into the Gallows, head held high and shoulders straight and each step firm and steady, and he realized there was steel hiding down her spine, beneath that gentle fall of black hair.

He admired her, and hated himself for it.

But he could not quite seem to stop.

Not when she was gone, hidden behind stone walls.  Especially not when he saw her again, at Chateau Haine, a pawn in the Chantry’s endless game of politics.

Or not a pawn, of course, too sure of herself, now, and her place in the Circle, to let anyone cow her, to let anyone use her.

And still she was pretty.

And still he admired her, and he could feel it, now, a warmth in his heart and a twist in his thoughts, but of course nothing could come of it, a former elven slave and a human mage.  

All they would ever have, would be this one brief dance to Orlesian music.

He met her eyes as he touched her hand, warm and brown and kind, the steel of her spine still there, still hidden from too quick and fleeting a glance, but he could see it.  He did not bother to breathe the entire time they moved together, her footsteps loose and graceful, and the music ended much too soon.


	4. not his

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> so, a bit unrequited, rather than specifically fitting the romance. but still. I like their dynamic, even here
> 
> original prompt: [no way out](http://machakizi.tumblr.com)

She was not his to rescue.

Fenris had thought about it, more than once, in the years since she had walked so calmly behind the Gallow’s Walls, spine straight and hair resting against her shoulders and her every movement smooth in contrast to the tight lines of Hawke’s body watching her go, to the heavy tread of the Templar at her side.

Considered how to carry her back out again.

She’d been his proof, when he met her, that maybe he really had escaped Tevinter’s shadow.  A mage with grace, of body and purpose and voice, as different from a Magister as he’d never been able to imagine.

And then he’d begun to imagine other things.  Inspired by the way light caught in her eyes when she ducked her head, the way her teeth pressed against her bottom lip when she thought,  _the way her mail hugged her hips._

He’d imagined himself taking her, the heat of her skin beneath his hands, the sound of her voice breaking as his hips snapped tight against her, as he filled her, as he fucked her, til her skin was bruised from his grip, her body loose from the pleasure he’d forced on her.

He spent one night nursing his drink, trying not to imagine the weight of her breasts, listening to Isabela tease Bethany, but gently, softer and sweeter than he’d ever thought the pirate knew how to be, and he felt the twist in his gut, shame and guilt, as if force was all he was good for, as if force was anything she’d want, an innocent young woman.

_A mage with fire and ice at her fingertips and demons in her dreams, the innocence cannot be true._

And yet.

Fenris found he believed it anyways.  

Slowly, of course, suspicion at first a sickly smear beneath every thought, until it began to seep away, to leave behind the fresh scent of clean sea air, the bright memory of her face tilted back to catch the sun, the hum of her voice in his ears.

Even, to his surprise, the glow caught between her fingers at the end of a battle, the hum in his scars in reaction to her magic fading until it was almost pleasant, for just a moment, a thrum against his skin.

His fantasies changed.

He heard her laughter in them, rich and loud and open, rather than the quiet smile she always seemed to think she needed to hide.

He held her hand in them, and there was no force, no pain, no regret, just the comfort of a simple touch, and the stroke of his thumb against her knuckles.

He liked to drink with Hawke, to let Isabela tease and flirt and cheat at cards, because then he could also watch and listen to Bethany, could attempt to catch a glimpse of that fleeting smile that warmed her face, that made Varric’s nickname a truth.

Could attempt to inspire it, in fact, or even better, to startle a short warm laugh before she ducked her head and let her hair hide her eyes again.

And sometimes he wondered what it would be like, to visit her Uncle’s home and be invited in.  To be trusted to sit, and talk, and drink her mother’s tea, and taste the bread she’d mentioned making every morning.

He did not know how to be a guest, but it was a nice dream, oddly satisfying, much better than the first blur of heat and pain and lust.

But time ran out before he could think of anything to say.

Perhaps he never would have, even if they hadn’t left on Hawke’s Expedition, even if they hadn’t taken too long below ground, even if he hadn’t watched her leave without once looking back at where she’d been.

But perhaps he could have caught one last smile, before she was gone.

***

She was smiling now, despite everything.  Despite the death, and the soot, the riots sure to be filling Kirkwall’s streets, the loss of her own kith and kind, blood spilled on the Gallow’s stone floors.

It was a smile unlike anything he’d ever seen, and was sweeter than his imaginings, warm and open and soft.

But it wasn’t for him.

It wasn’t even for Hawke, hand outstretched to take Bethany with them as they left Kirkwall at last, leaving the pain and the tragedy and the loss of the past six years.

Instead Bethany shook her head, and stepped back, away from them, setting herself at her Templar’s side.

Her smile was for  _him_ , the very Knight who’d taken her away, who’d bowed beneath Meredith’s rules, who’d refused to act until it was much,  _much,_  too late.

For all he couldn’t understand how she could forgive him, for all he felt the twist of something perilously close to hatred behind his breastbone, he could not begrudge her that smile, or the way the Knight’s eyes softened as he leaned in just a little closer, as his tension eased enough Fenris could see the shift of his shoulders, even beneath his plate.

Hawke seemed uncertain, for possibly only the second time Fenris had ever seen, both of them today, hand still held out, the wrist twisting, as if to ask a question for which there were no words.

Bethany came forward at last, gave Hawke a hug, long and tight, and a kiss on the cheek, a quick whisper and a duck of her head, achingly familiar, so like and unlike the shy girl Fenris thought he’d known six years ago.

And then she went back,  _again,_  and her Knight’s arm settled around her shoulders, his eyes wide as if surprised at himself, as if amazed at the existence of this moment in time.

Fenris swallowed, and moved to stand beside Hawke, to reach out a hand, to start them moving, to help Isabela get them all, finally,  _away._

Even if he’d been able to rescue Bethany, she never would have let him.  She didn’t need it.  She didn’t want out.

She’d made her own home.

She’d rescued herself.

There was nothing else he could do for her, except leave.


	5. neck kiss

He’d taken her to bed, or she him, she never had quite figured out which.

He would watch as she Healed him, body still and eye calm.

He smiled, that impossibly expressive half curve of his mouth, whenever she laughed.

She laughed more than she had in years, now.

But it was when he lifted his chin to feel her breath against his skin, when he bared his throat to her, a soft hum of pleasure escaping as her nose brushed up the line of his brand, his fingers curling softly against her back as she kissed him, just beneath his jaw, that she knew he truly trusted her.

That she knew he loved her, as much as she loved him.


	6. Left Behind

She leaves more than she stays, loses more than she keeps.

Her childhood, when that first uncontrolled spark of fire burned her fingertips.

Father, liquid in his lungs and an ache in his chest and an end, that at last, gave him some peace.

If no one else.

Carver, as far from peace as possible, broken and abandoned.

Mother, and freedom, _but was she ever really free?_

Her choice, at least, at last. Just this once.

She gained a peace of a sort, or a purpose, at least, guarding scared young souls behind thick stone walls, but she missed the sky, and the pounding of the surf, and even the way the floor of the Hanged Man had stuck and squeaked beneath her boots.

She missed Hawke, of course, though it ached at odd moments, the way the name had become a title, and not for Father.

Nothing would ever again be for Father.

She missed Isabela’s laugh, and Varric’s stories, and Aveline’s smallest smile and Anders’ sorrow and Merrill’s drive and even Fenris’ fire, because for all he’d burned with anger and lyrium, he’d always been so careful to never let himself burn her.

She was surprised, out of all she’d lost, that his was the final spark she regretted the most.

She was even more surprised, when she stepped beyond the walls she’d chosen, hunting Carta, then wyverns, despite all their years apart, to see him there, the first to greet her, and the last to say good-bye when she left them all behind again, and again.

She was not surprised, when it was the walls she left behind, to find his hand reached out for hers.


	7. languid

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "underwater kiss" ... Fenris/Bethany/Alistair for [machakizi](http://faejilly.tumblr.com/post/117818499643)

It is a good day. 

The water is warm, and the chest beneath her head lifts slowly, steadily, the thumb resting on her stomach slowly stroking up, and down, in time with his breathing. The sun is warm, but scattered by the trees just enough not to scorch, the sky a pale, pale blue beyond the leaves above her.

There’s a sound, caught in the shift of water up over her ears, but the steady rate of the breath against her ear doesn’t change beyond a slight shift of a chin to change the angle,  _clearly nothing to worry Fenris, whatever it was,_  so she just sighs, and closes her eyes.

“Well, that’s a sight to make any day turn perfect.”

She smiles, and lifts her chin, but keeps her eyes closed, imagining, without needing to see, the weight of his gaze as he admires them, the glimpses of their bodies he’d be able to see beneath the shift of the sunlight on the water.

She feels the water move as he approaches, and she sighs at the light caress of his fingers against the line of her jaw and down her neck. 

It is something more than a sigh, her fingers clenching around Fenris’ arm, when she feels the water lap up against her chin as he breaks the surface, and presses his lips, warm and soft, above the beat of her heart.

It is the start of a groan that he swallows into his mouth when he lifts his head and kisses her, wet and hot, lips and tongue and the taste of the lake caught between them.

“Why hello to you to, Alistair,” Fenris’ voice is painfully, beautifully dry, and she feels Alistair’s lips curve into a smile against her mouth, where they are still so gently touching.

“I missed you too,” Alistair’s voice is soft as he shifts his weight through the water, and she smiles to watch the way his fingertips find the line of Fenris’ jaw, right where it meets the bottom of his ear, the way Fenris’ eyes close, lashes dark against his skin, before Alistair leans in to kiss him as well.

It is a good day.


	8. unspoken

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [an anonymous prompt](http://faejilly.tumblr.com/post/142103624408) on tumblr: things you didn’t say at all, and/or things you said after it was over

He had kept her secret when they first met, as she had kept his, mage and ex-slave in plain sight walking through hexes High and Low.

Had offered condolences for the brother she missed, the man he’d never met.

Had called her strong, once, and pretty.

Had been kind, though he had received so little of such kindnesses himself. He had looked her in the eye, had called her Bethany when almost no one ever bothered to learn her name, when she was still just  _the Hawke girl,_  always hiding behind her family.

He had not let her hide.

It was only now, surrounded by the scorched and blooded walls of the Gallows, that she realized she had never returned his courtesy with her own. 

She had let him hide, had let him disappear, as she worried about herself and her place and ignored the ones who had tried to be her friends, all those years ago.

Perhaps it was not too late? If they survived, of course.

Not too late to try and find a way.

Not too late to say it out loud.

_Thank you._


End file.
